Friendly Fire
by netherlady
Summary: Blake's reaction after revealing the OK's identity was never explored. How did he feel when he learned that his ex-partner & friend is the OK? As for Jayden, he died from ARI overuse while solving the puzzle, or did he? Blake & Shelby's Shōnen-ai.
1. Chapter 1

The human Blake doesn't receive enough attention in this fandom. The man gotta a heart, you know XD

Thanks for Pectus Noctem for taking the time to proofread and polish "Friendly Fire". Go read for her; especially "Snapped" and "Je T'Aime"

* * *

**Friendly Fire**

* * *

Working hours are almost over in the precinct where Blake is currently stationed. A few more minutes and it's "revenge time". How therapeutic it will be to finally deliver a most-deserved beating to the most annoying brat he has ever seen: FBI Agent Norman Jayden. Blake just doesn't like him. Seeing his face is enough to trigger the urge to punch it repeatedly. Of course, there are far more reasonable justifications for his dangerous attitude, but he doesn't want to think with reason—reason is the sworn enemy of revenge.

God bless the lack of punctuality among his co-workers who have already started slipping out from every exit like quicksilver. As usual, the big boss has already left and it is a weekend eve, so ten minutes won't make a different. Besides, there are the few unlucky ones who will shortly arrive to spend another lonely night on duty.

For Blake, he's waited long enough, and most of the employees have left already. Excited with bloodlust, he loudly pushes his chair backward with the momentum of his abrupt stand. He knows what he needs to do. He knows where he must go. So, impulsively, he heads straight to the Profiler's office with unwavering sight set on the bland door that hides his prey.

He hasn't seen him leave. He is sure of that because he was keeping a watchful eye all the time. The poor agent would have run if he knew what the vengeful lieutenant was plotting ever since he baselessly accused him of being the Origami Killer. It's not as if the preposterous accusation is the only act of disrespect that Jayden has carried out since his unwelcome arrival. It was just the straw that broke the camel's back. Now, the camel is very angry about it and would like to get a bloody payback.

How many doors has he kicked down in the past few days? He can't remember. It's not like he needs to keep counting to break a record or something. However, if he does, he may actually make it into Guinness World Records. Well, perhaps the counting could start now.

One is down and the door to Norman's so-called office swings inward thanks to a single pound from the human ram known as Lt. Carter Blake. At this point, there is no backing down for sure. Why does it matter anyway? Blake is a decisive man. His decisiveness peaks when he sees his ignorant target; strangely not awakened by his grand entrance, as he continues napping with head slumped on top of the dusty desk. Still seeing red, Blake dashes to the desk side and slams both hands forcefully; shouting with all the venom and hatred that's piled up inside of him for the past few days.

"Wake up, you asshole!"

Oddly, and considering that a very angry and very provoked beast has just roared at him within inches from his head, Jayden is not snapping from his snooze. It cannot be normal to sleep through the tornado that is whirling within his office—not without at least stirring.

For Blake, this is insulting. How long is this asshole planning to keep on offending him? It doesn't matter. He is here to show him the error of his arrogant ways starting with a swift flip of the tattered chair he is occupying. Blake sends the dreaming sleeper crashing backwards along with his chair, hitting his head on the concrete floor.

Silence falls suddenly and Blake's outburst goes short on fuel, allowing clarity better access to his violent mind. He takes in the scene fully: Jayden is sprawled motionlessly on the floor with his legs still entangled in the chair. Now that he is allowed view of the 'asshole's' face, he notices how the profiler is still wearing those ridiculous sunglasses in spite of the aggressive knock that Blake had just delivered.

The lieutenant's eyes narrow upon seeing traces of dried blood below the shades—twin rivulets illuminated by the blue neon glow which is produced from the unusual device (he already knows that Jayden's sunglasses aren't mere eyewear since he's seen him using it as a projector couple of days ago). With an investigator's instinct, he crouches and reaches a careful hand to check for pulse. However, his hand retreats midway, in startled irritation, when the irritating man lets out a pained whimper.

In response, Blake curses through gritted teeth,

"Norman, you little shit."

He immediately snatches the glasses to expose the bloodied eyes of the sprawled man. Tasting vengeance, he smiles sadistically when a pained Jayden growls at the sudden assault of light on his sore eyes.

Slow and groggy, Norman's perception starts an inner transmission of his current situation. It speeds up, urged on by the stabbing light that penetrates his sensitive pupils. He tries to shield his eyes by squeezing them shut—apparently, he's forgotten that he can use his arm. He gradually opens them, trying to adjust to early brilliance. He cannot say that he is eager to welcome the scene in front.

After using ARI for this long, the agent came to know every single environmental theme uploaded in the device. Soon he came to favor "the autumn forest", making it his default whenever it is time to analyze clues gathered from a bloody crime scene. Dangerously disturbing, the scene he's waking up to isn't like any autumn forest, not even remotely similar.

The serious expression that appeared on Blake's face returns when Jayden opens his reddened eyes. It isn't the bleeding that worries him—the amount isn't significant enough to raise an alarm. He wordlessly observes how the unfocused pairs seem to dart anxiously around the office. Puzzlement ceases him when the other lifts himself partially before he reaches with a trembling hand to remove the sunglasses that he believes to be resting on the bridge of his narrow nose.

No wonder this scene doesn't resemble anything from ARI's fantasy reality—he is not in the virtual realm that his lost glasses evoke at will. His sun is nowhere to be found, dethroned by the blue moon that ruled over his sky, his life. A cold wind sweeps the wasteland that extends beyond to the gray sky, chilling him to the bone with its mournful wails.

Is he hallucinating from ARI overuse? How can he snap from it? He cannot take Tripto—he just took a hit. Yet, this is real. It feels real. Where is he? When did he leave the quiet of his office? The last thought struck him with unnatural dread, warning him not to entertain the idea any longer.

Blake quietly studies the bloodshot and moist eyes that expand in horror upon some inner discovery. With apprehension, he watches the breathless man scanning the office with hysterical gazes. To his surprise, Jayden's eyes connect blankly with his. The mystified cop finds himself looking straight into a blind man's eyes that held no light nor recognition but dark blood glistening on the surfaces of twin pale pools.

Laws of nature don't seem to apply in this foreign realm. Dark and heavy clouds suddenly appear as if they were summoned by the ritual dance of a magician's wand. They come rushing to cluster around one another and honor their heavenly kinship—their speed is unnatural. Soon, the oversized icy moon meets the same fate of the unseen sun; drowned in a sea of murky mist.

The burdened sky whines under the abnormal load but who would bestow mercy in this God-forsaken land? Soon it is illuminated by blue radiance that runs it through with forking veins of cold light. The momentary glow reveals the true identity of the mystical land, throwing its lone inhabitant into unearthly turmoil.

Makeshift broken crosses are impaled in the solid ground—immortal witnesses to the miserable history of this land. The graves that they marked so stubbornly seem to overlap in an affinity of the dead. They seem erased completely, even with ground level. They would've been lost in the depth of earth if it weren't for the tattered monuments that endured aging so valiantly.

The sad sky cries in late mourn, shedding frozen tears that hail down the abandoned burial ground. Yet, icy pellets seem to have far grander purpose as they shower the fading graves, bringing life to long-withered beings. In cold horror, he watches the dead arise with deep howls of agony; empty eye-sockets seeking him. Decayed faces he knew from the past appear in front of him; victims on the sidewalk of his life. Faces of dead family members, colleagues, criminals and victims are all alike. Yet, one expected face isn't there. Partially, he is relieved.

Blake observes the younger man who is still trapped in an absurd fit of self-terror. Experimentally, he extends a slow hand inches away from the blood-drained face which is wrapped in otherworldly fear. At this proximity, he notices Jayden's sufficient lack of oxygen. His eyes thin visibly upon realizing the wooden stiffness of the body. Though the distant man doesn't show any sign of noticing the cautious limb suspended in front of him, Blake waves his hand slowly just to verify the finding. Indeed, Norman is in another domain where the other man's existence is not reflected on his unblinking crimson eyes. Sure, he is not eager join the agent wherever he is since, obviously, his imaginary realm is not a fluffy dreamland.

As if Blake's hand has developed a will of its own, the rebellious limb refuses to retreat without being noticed. The intrigued fingers creep with a mixture of curiosity and restlessness. Deliberately, they seek the scared stiff shoulder of the human statue at hand.

Jayden is horrified but he can manage as long as Nathanial Williams—the man he killed out of cowardly panic—doesn't rise from the dead to claim his rightful vengeance. Unfortunately, his hopefulness wither like the creeping corpse in front of him when a cold hand sprouts from the grey soil, shooting high to clasp his rigid shoulder with a grip as chilling as death's hold.

Blake's daring hand shrinks back with a reflective jerk that is a semi-copy of Jayden's forceful one. It would've screamed if it could, inspired by the horror cry of the other man that screeches throughout his dry throat. The shrilling scream is just the beginning—a first stop in the horror train that the hallucinating agent is riding.

The face he dared is onto him, inches away from his fear-ravaged one. It reeks with fresh decay and wet soil. It still maintains its drained features and tired eyes. He has to escape as far as he can. Desperately, he crawls backward, supported by a numb pair of arms that threatened to buckle behind him. Something seems to ensnare his legs—dead branches that seems to manifest out of the blue. Hurried, he struggles to free his legs and manages to maneuver them out but not very gracefully.

Barely blinking, the lieutenant observes the irrational fright and flight that is being displayed in the dimming office. Unintentionally, Jayden has barley managed to free his tangled legs from the chair armrests but not without twisting a limb. His face twitches with the imaginary pain upon hearing the clang produced by the clash of frantic bone and cold steel. Lucky for the younger man, his mind seems utterly dominated with unearthly horror to the degree that he lost touch with physical pain.

As he tries, the older cop fails to understand what could possibly be terrorizing enough to send the FBI agent crawling backward for dear life. He cannot help envisioning a feeble instinct, thrashing desperately after it got caught in an entangling web of hunger devised by ferocious spider. He cannot be the spider, can he? If so, Mr. FBI here better brace himself for far worse physical pain.

A loud thud snaps him from his metaphoric imagination. With no more space to crawl through, the fleeing man has just hit the office wall behind. Clearly, this isn't happy news for the distressed agent as his fright seems to shoot sky-high. He starts hyperventilating in strained gasps that threaten to burst out from his chest. Presented by this scene, Blake realizes that, whatever hallucination the other man is having, it is serious enough to physically engulf him in sheer horror.

Naturally in this unnatural reality, a gray brick-wall manifests behind him out of thin air, as if it's eager to aid the avenger who is rising slowly from mother earth. His dried eyes dart to both sides in search of an escape route. Unluckily, the diabolical wall seems to read his mind and stretches horizontally on both ends. In a flickering second, he and his enemy are alone in a small roofless room that's separated from the rest of the cemetery. He is done for, and Williams will have revenge for the pointless kill. The realization hits him in the face like a violent gush of icy wind that takes away all warmth.

As if his irritation was competing egoistically with Jayden's fear, Blake starts to lose little patience he has. This charade has gone too long, and he barely can resist the temptation to lunge and bounce Jayden's head off the wall. Choosing a calmer approach, he stands and walks slowly towards the desk. He picks a discarded full cup of cold coffee—apparently Jayden never got the time to enjoy the bitter privilege.

He continues his casual stroll, heading towards the man who still has his bulging eyes fixed on whatever monstrosity they are imagining into ethereal existence. With one elegant flip of his wrist, Blake pours the black liquid right on Jayden's head. At an instant, the man who was shivering with mystical cold goes still, trapped in the frozen moment. _That's a switch alright_, Blake remarks.

He is completely trapped with no hope of escaping the dead man's wrath who is already crawling towards him. Breathing becomes second to feeling the terror that shakes him to the core. He is doomed and, as if it's trying to assure him of his dark end, the sky pours a foreboding black rain. Rapidly, the descending blackness paints everything black, swallowing this realm whole before revealing reality: his office with Blake standing tall above him, holding an empty paper cup.

Feeling proud, Blake lowers himself to catch the look on Jayden's face. He cannot help but grinning upon seeing the wet bangs of the usually neat hair sticky to the profiler's forehead. His grin widens smugly when he sees the light of perception shining through the other's narrowed eyes. Riding his pride, the bully cop starts the verbal abuse, "What? No 'thank you'? I dragged your FBI ass back to reality," but he pauses for a long second before teasing, ". . . nutcase." A sadistic gleam shins through his dark eyes as he watches Jayden's hard gaze loses faith and becomes a defeated one.

Silence stretches between the two but the lieutenant never minds a prolonged moment of triumph. He loses interest when the defeated man speaks submissively, "Are you done?" but soon his cranky alter ego surfaces when the agent challenges, ". . . 'cause I gotta a kid to save." Dark eye twitches with infuriation.

Jayden must have noticed the viciousness that just replaced Blake's early amused face—he bolts to the door. Unlucky for the runaway, Blake has also noticed the gleam of fear that'd flashed in his eyes before determination came to the rescue. Thrusting his forearm horizontally, the lieutenant counters attack the escape attempt, pressing the younger man on the hard wall behind.

"How ya gonna save him if you can't save your psycho ass?" he spits angrily and emphasizes the threat via applying more pressure on Jayden's throat. To his continuous annoyance, the profiler gasps, "I know . . . where he's. I-I got the real . . . killer." He immediately scorns, "What? Nathanial's voices are speaking to ya after you wacked him." Seeing the pained expression in front, he realizes that he's hit a sore spot with the comment.

It wasn't so much of a hit since the agent is back with a confident declaration, "I've proof. I-I can show you." Hearing that, doubt sneaks on him and his hold starts to falter, allowing Jayden's pressured lungs more air. The other must've noticed the change of attitude as he presses him, "You won't lose anything . . . unlike if I was right." Although he hates to admit it, Norman got him. He withdraws his arm and finds himself negotiating, "Show me." The FBI profiler better not be wasting his time.

He watches the other leans to the side, extending an arm to the neglected shades. He notices the unexplainable dread that flashes through the man's eyes as he gets a hold of it. For a second, the sunglasses are shaking visibly but its owner seems to muster the courage at last and puts them on. He goes stiff for a while, as if he was expecting a disaster to fall upon him, but his face relaxes with great relief that decorates his quivering lips with the most genuine smile.

Already feeling that this is a waste of time, Blake observes him putting a lone leather glove before he starts maneuvering the space with his hand. _He is a wacko alright_, he comments with annoyed amazement. He is about to the crush the glasses into Jayden's face but loses the urge when the other pulls them off offering, "Put them on and see the Origami Killer." Suspicious, he takes them and wears them on—it's better to have this pair of fancy glasses for himself instead of breaking them with the FBI profiler's nose.

Truth to be told, Blake wasn't expecting something when he'd put ARI glasses on. A video starts playing in front of his eyes where the agent is being held down on a table by a shrouded figure—a man. He watches intensely, fascinated by the surreal technology, with Jayden providing in-play commentary, "You see, the killer is taller and bigger than Mars. He's also a cop since he killed Paco with a 45-calibure that is supposed to be in police custody. He's likely an ex-lieutenant in this precinct. You see the gold watch—the watch they give as promotion present for new lieutenant." The last part of the commentary reminds Blake why he came after the profiler in the first place.

Busy building his anger back, Blake fails to react when the opposite man, swiftly, snatches the device from his eyes and tucks it away in his breast pocket. He is about to punch him for the disrespectful act but gets his attention averted when the other speaks, "The killer dropped two gas receipts from the same station. Only one cop lives nearby that station. D'ya know Scott Shelby?" Blake can't help sneering when he hears the direct accusation. He declares proudly, "Yeah and he is no killer, _Sherlock Holmes_!" His mirth subsides when Jayden teases in faked puzzlement, "Then why would he own a warehouse in an abandoned area of the city? He's not storing nuts for winter, or is he?"

In response, Blake rises slowly but his narrowed eyes never leave Jayden, not even to blink. Distantly, he watches the other rises as well but staggers momentary before he regains his balance supported by the wall behind. Locking eyes with his, the agent keeps quiet in anticipation of a response. Yet and although it is a rare occurrence, the usually sure cop finds himself at lost for both words and action. His mind drifts away, contemplating the dangerous thought of his old partner being a child killer.

Feelings of anger, malice, defeat and betrayal assault him together. The concept of being backstabbed by one of the few he trusts is enraging, enough to send his mind behind a thick red curtain. Did the backstabbing start while Scott was still on the force, while he was occupying the desk next to him? Was he kidnapping children and drowning them in night and come in the morning to share with him coffee and cigarettes? If he is truly the Origami Killer then the answer must be an ugly "yes". That's simply because the murders have started before his friend's resig . . . did he just think of him as a friend? It is bitterly true.

Rare as they are, Scott is one of the few people that the skeptical lieutenant actually thinks of them as "friend". This is natural considering the long history that they share back from early days of their career. Being relative close in age to the ex-cop, relating to him was something inevitable for young Officer Carter Blake. More importantly, he's always thought of the calm and collected cop as his safety net whenever his short temper threw him of the edge of reason. When he saw him the other day in the station, he wasn't ashamed to feel happy at seeing another man. Back then, he naively wished if he was there to rejoin the force, just like the old days.

Jayden spares him the tortuous thought when he decides for both of them, "I bet we'll find Mars' kid there if we check." Hearing that, he realizes how incapable he is of believing that that man can actually commit such a despicable act of betrayal, severing their ties in the process. With a defensive impulse, he slams the agent into the wall and presses him with a vise grip on his throat. Venting a ragged breath of anger and frustration, he speaks into the other's face, "If you're wrong, Jayden . . . I'll shove your glasses up your ass."

Pausing for a moment, he intently observes the other absorbing the sadistic threat; his narrowed eyes never leave the irritated pair. He releases the profiler along with a nervous exhale that hints his inner turmoil to the other man. Although Blake doesn't like the fact that Jayden is, relatively, playing the leader role, he still heads towards the door. In the background, he hears him whispering, "That's encouraging . . . sick bastard!" He ignores the hesitant taunt and exits in haste with a limping Jayden falling behind. He is aware of the younger man's appeals to slow down as he sends him muffled growls of pain. He disregards the signal; Shelby's truth being the only thing on his mind.

* * *

**TBC**

* * *

**A/N:** Some may find the way I wrote the hallucination section confusing but it had to be like this since the whole idea is confusing for both guys. I didn't want to use paragraphs breakers because they tend to break the mood. What do you think? Feel free to criticize.


	2. Chapter 2

**Friendly Fire**

**

* * *

**

Having a keen sense of self-awareness is something that is always seen by Agent Norman Jayden as a gift that helps him understand himself and others better. True, this ability has grown tiresome lately in relation to the increase in number of the skeletons in his closet; Triptocaine abuse being at the helm. Regardless and no matter how ugly things may become, his self-insight will always easy him in, taking him slowly through a long trip of realization. Norman can't say the same thing about bathrooms mirrors though; especially the one in front.

A while ago, he exited his office, intending to follow the determined lieutenant outside the station. However, he detoured left to the men restroom since he needed to clean off the sticky substance that the other has showered him with earlier. He took off his jacket and started rinsing his hair under running water before brushing the collar of his shirt. Chilled but relatively cleaned at least, he was about to exit but froze in front of the wide mirror.

His sickly pale reflection reminds him of his blue curse: Triptocaine. Actually, the addictive substance has nothing to do with cursing him—he only has his feeble will to blame. The fading traces of blood that lingers under his eyes declare him just another lab rat. He is even worse than one since those poor creatures are caged and imprisoned against their will. Singing up to a shady project that involves a device which alters human perception . . . even rats are smarter than him. Today, he found himself in a creepy cemetery, but God only knows where he will wake up tomorrow. As for the faint bruises and the fresh red marks on his neck, they speak volumes of his physical weakness and cowardice self. _Even rats bite when they are cornered, _the mental irony leaves him with a degrading sense of vulnerability.

True, there are occasions where he gets into fights but, most times, they are verbal skirmishes that never develop into full fist-fights. Yet when they do, he always ends up having the shit kicked out of him . . . pathetically. Actually, verbal-clashing is a newly-developed habit brought to life thanks to the uncontrollable aggression that, lately, has started staining his behavioral patterns—a side effect of the toxic in his blood. He used to be the rational and collected type but that has changed following the shocking discovery of his addictive tendency.

Even the man in the mirror starts wrinkling his nose at him, disgust by his innate weakness. _Keep telling yourself that you allowed that asshole cop to bully you since little weak Shaun got few hours left and they can't be wasted fighting. For how long are you going to concern yourself with others' well-being while risking your own? _He fails to refute the mental accusation. _Don't say it is __chivalrous! You wouldn't do it if you've a shred of self-value or someone waiting for you at home, _the denied truth surfaces again.

In fact, the man in the mirror is not telling him anything new. More like it, he is only brushing dust away from long neglected facts and realizations. He's always known, deep within his heart, that, every time he cracks a big case and every time he is glorified as a hero, his motivation is still the same: a selfish desire to find purpose and validate his existence. This time around, he is better than rats which only have their animalistic instincts to drive them down the road.

A noise interrupts his heavy chain of thoughts and draws his attention to the right. He arches an eyebrow upon seeing it source: a rat. _Talk of the devil_, he muses in dry sarcasm. He hates rats thanks to their legendary association with _the Black Death _that he read so much about. He grabs his jacket from a nearby washbasin, ready to leave, but he jumps startled when the little creature charges at his shoes, poking them every time they get in the way. "Blind fuck!" he curses angrily, disgusted by the close proximity that the dirty animal is trying to reduce. He tries to kick away the persistent creature but fails in face of its vengeful determination. _I thought you have big ears to avoid running into others, you stupid animal,_ the thought crosses his head before he squashes the poor rat into silence, bringing an end to its blind crusade against the human who just insulted its kind.

Clenching his jaws, he regrets the violent approach when stinging pain runs through his bruised knee. Now that he notices it, he really doesn't remember how he's hurt himself in the first place. For a moment, he hesitates to remove his foot and reveals the messy kill, but he summons the courage eventually. He draws back the murderous limb, trying not to commit the carnage below to his photographic memory. Sure, he fails for the temptation and steals an unpleasant peak that he comes to regret immediately. _Phew! It's not sticky,_ he exhales the thought once an experimental tread proves his shoe innocent of taking bodily souvenir from its victim. Without at a second thought, he escapes the crime scene.

Although he has low tolerance for waiting, Blake sets calmly in his car at the police station parking lot. His mind is at disarray, unable to hold on to particular thought. He surrenders the intellectual venture and resorts to watching dust particles dance leisurely in the light of the car headlights. For him, their weightless floating speaks of simple untainted joy and light existence (if it can be labeled one). He doesn't feel appreciative but rather envious so he cuts the light. Why did he turn it on this fast anyway?

He would've driven to his destination only if he knew the address. Earlier, he was still pondering the disturbing news and didn't have the chance to get the warehouse address. Annoying as it is, he has to wait for the agent who was following him for a second before he ran into the bathroom. Of course, the preoccupied cop wasn't going to remain outside the restroom like some guy waiting for his date to redo her makeup.

The door to the passenger seat opens and a hurried Jayden pushes himself in. For a second, he scans the younger man's face—the idea of Norman wearing makeup entertains him for a while. He relinquishes the irrational thought when he hears the deep sigh that the other occupant of the car releases after he's fastened his belt. He ignores it asking curtly, "Where to go," and get an equally curt answer, "Theodore Roosevelt Road, the old docks." Hearing this, he reaches to the gearshift with a reluctant hand. Aggravated upon noticing his hesitation, he pushes onward, wiggling the gearshift forcefully before hitting the gas pad. He is irritable alright—extra irritable actually—and someone is going to feel his wrath; preferably the FBI little shit.

Blake's usually determination eludes him once he is faced by the warehouse door. Behind him, he can hear Jayden bitching about the rain and the cold which adds to his building frustration. "Blake, what are you waiting for?" Hearing the other whispers the question, he realizes that he cannot hesitate any further—he has a reputation to keep. _Fight fire with fire,_ he persuades himself, pulling his gun out and pushing the door open. He enters the building with the armed agent following behind.

At first glance, the warehouse seems neglected and out of use but the fact that it's lit convinces the lieutenant otherwise. Tightening his grip on his gun, he walks in carefully with alert eyes scanning the space surrounding him. _Someone could ambush us from above,_ his mind warns him when he notices the number of elevated platforms and walkways. "Norman!" he whispers his partner name as he gestures upward, and the other catches the unspoken hint immediately, sending his eyes above.

Feet away from the grate ahead, Blake halts his advance: Jayden is right after all. He lowers his gun, drawing the attention of the man behind who comes rushing from behind. An alien sense of disappointment sinks deep in his core, leaving ache in its wake. Blankly, he watches Jayden struggling with the metal bars but his frustration gets the better of him. "Out of the way!" he shouts, striding forward, and fires at the lock. At least another kid doesn't have to die in vain . . . hopefully.

He holsters his gun and helps the other lift the heavy metal but withdraw to watch him pulling the unconscious kid and resting him on the floor. Passively, he observes the other quickly inspecting the kid's vital signs before addressing him with anxious eyes, "Shit! He is not breathing!" His blood boils at the sight of the lifeless form in front: a certain ex-cop has already passed the point of no return. He snatches his radio, intent to invite every cop in the city to join the manhunt for the real Origami Killer.

In front of him, Jayden starts performing the standard CPR as he calls the dispatcher at the station. "This is Let. Carter Blake. We need an ambulance at 852, Theodor Roosevelt Road. We've found Shaun Mars. I repeat: we've found Shaun Mars." He pauses, contemplating how he will tell the officer on the other line that there ex-comrade is the Origami Killer who has been terrorizing the city for years. A weak cough calls his attention from the dilemma at hand and he finds himself sharing the same sincere smile of relief with Norman. Seeing the pal kid still disoriented is enough motivation for him to set things right so he carries on with the report, "Send extra unites here and put an AP . . ." but he doesn't get to finish.

A gun barrel connects with the back of his head, freezing him right at the spot where he is stranding. "Up!" commands a familiar calm voice that, before now, never has failed to sooth his restless spirit. Through dull eyes, he sees Jayden's attention shifts from the confused kid to seek the man behind who has his partner—him—at gunpoint. Shocked, he slowly lifts his arms above, still holding to the radio in one hand. Never he's thought that, one day, he would find himself in a situation where his life is threatened by someone who has preserved it in variant ways. He hears Jayden, still has protective arms around Shaun, trying to convince Shelby, "You don't want make things worse, Scott."

_How worse can't get, asshole,_ the desperate remark comes silently. He shudders and inhales sharply when a familiar soft palm is placed against his chest, lingering briefly before probing under his armpit. He can feel the older man's warm breath caresses the back of his neck as he closes the distance between them. He closes his eyes trying to evades the soft breeze of memory that glazes his heart with naïve joy, but opens them to the reality of his situation: he—the proud Let. Carter Blake—being stripped of his weapon by the man who knows him like no one.

His ex-partner uses his gun to intimidate the FBI agent to stand, commanding, "Stand up, slowly . . . hands in the air." He successes as the profiler places the kids on his back and rises as specified. Now, their situation has gone a little more hopeless.

A gentle tease brushes his earlobe, "Still a silver 220 . . . you're a creature of habit, Carter." He grits his teeth trying to maintain control over his furious humiliation that threatens to usurp his mind and send his body on a wild rampage of revenge. He manages to maintain logical thinking through his emotional uproar, and he finds himself able to keep up with the tease, "I am, ain't I." The man behind him chuckles amused but his mirth vanishes with a deep sigh before he speaks in a solemn tone, "I'm sorry, Carter . . . I truly am."

Blake can feel the truth that Shelby's sad tone holds: he still cares about him. Presented by the other's weak spot, he intrigues, "You know, it doesn't have to end this way." Glancing over his shoulder, he can feel the other's interest so he continues, "Aside from owning a neglected warehouse, nothing solid links you to the crimes. The killer could've been using it without your knowledge." Stealing a quick look at Jayden, he catches his ghostly white face and his wide eyes but switches his focus back to Shelby when he inquires from behind, "Who knows?" His collaboration offer is appealing to the other so he encourages, "No one except Mr. FBI here, but I'll take care of him for ya. I never liked the bureaucratic asshole anyway."

He hears Shelby behind him remarking in genuine delight, "You've never changed, Carter. Just like the old days." But he pays him no heed as he catches the betrayed look on Jayden's face that, soon, turns into a one of immense loath. _So much for having faith in your partner, Norman, _he sighs mentally. _Can't say I blame ya_, he concludes the mental irony. Unluckily, he fails to anticipate the agent's reaction to the faked betrayal.

Powerlessly, he watches Norman shoots a hand inside his jacket to retrieve his gun but Shelby is faster. With a direct hit to the chest, the agent is sent flat on his back but not without firing an unfocused bullet, grazing his nemesis's neck in the process. Shelby falters backward and releases the stolen gun before using his freed hand to pressure the gushing wound.

Blake acts fast as well, evading the cross fire as he ducks and spins around. He bounces at the wounded ex-cop and tackles him to the ground. Using his knees, he pins both arms at the elbow before he unleashes his vengeful fists—the radio he was holding is neglected behind. At this moment, he casts his mind aside and allows the beast within to surface. He deserves to have his release after his early admirable act of self-restraint that delivered him this victory.

The punching shower continues for a while before he regains some of his sense. Underneath him, Shelby's face has long since it turned into a bloody mess. Breathless, he watches his trembling fists unfold under the stinging pain that he is beginning to feel. Both his blood and that of his enemy are painting his hands crimson red. It hits him that he isn't wearing his leather gloves despite being his habit in this chilly weather. _Strange,_ he thinks.

Adrenaline seems to withdraw from his system and his tense muscles loosen up. He lets his arms fall relaxed against his sides but fails to disconnect his eyes from the unfocused ones underneath. He observes Shelby's swollen eyes regain some of its light before his quavering lips move, "You never changed . . . Blakey-boy." Animalistic fury shatters little restored reason once he hears the old nickname that he used to adore fondly. With eyes frantic with madness, he roars from the depth of his throat, "Shut up!" He punctuates the command with a forceful fist aimed at his jaw. Needless to say, the other follows the brute order and even beyond as he loses consciousness.

Soon, Blake pushes himself up, heaving from both the physical and emotional exertion. He has to get him out of his sight or he will end up beating him to death. He sways slightly then turns around to be welcomed by another wounded man: he has forgotten his existence for God-knows how long. "Shit!" he breaths the curse out heavily and rushes to the man; bypassing the still lying Shaun in his way.

He lowers himself beside the agent who is groaning with the pain and shooting him angry glare. The situation strikes him as critical when he notices how Jayden's white shirt has turned red with bleeding. He averts his attention when the upset agent clutches his arm growling, "Where're your negotiation skills when I killed Nathanial." He ignores the rhetorical question in favor of the bloody shirt. "Shut up, Norman," he recites nervously while searching for the bullet point of entry. He applies pressure once he finds it amidst the gore—a jolting underneath his palms speaks of fractured ribs.

He pulls his hands immediately when the injured man screams in pain and arches his body upward, trying to throw off the pressuring limbs. Jayden opens his mouth to curse the rough cop but ends up gurgling what sounds like "Fuggrr" when blood comes rushing from his mouth. Alarmed, Blake flips him on his right side wondering how nasty it feels to choke on your own blood. He shoots one hand to loosen the wounded agent's tie and shirt collar, hoping to easy his ragged breathing, then shifts away to allow him more space. Carefully, he reattempts applying pressure with one hand while the other serves to steady the injured. _He's breathing—whistling more like it—but he is good,_ he assures his guilty conscience.

Relief eludes him when he notices how his pressuring attempt is failing to reduce the dangerous bleeding. Apparently, the cracked rib cage stands between him and whatever internal wound the other has sustained. Blood is oozing through his hands, covering the dry layer of the early bloody mixture. _Better they don't have any weird shit in their blood, _the thought hits him with apprehension since he can feels cut wounds on his hands that he's acquired after beating the shit out of Shelby. He isn't panthophobic or something but HIV is a bitch and he hates bitches. He glances at both Jayden and Shelby as if he trying to get some assurance but ends up forgetting his phobia when his eyes meet Shaun who is already sitting upright. "Everything will be alright, kiddo," the insincere assurance comes automatically after all these years on the force.

The early assurance proves empty indeed when Jayden heart starts pounding under his hands, throwing the wounded lungs into a gasping race. The man underneath is going into shock and he acts fast, unbuckling his belt to easy most needed blood flow, before he sheds his coat and covers him to stabilize his body temperature. Things are bad but he is doing his best to increase the agent's survival chances. Well, Jayden better make it since Blake is walking the extra mile for him—the older cop has to anyway.

He hates to admit it but Norman's death will be partially his fault; his so-called _negotiation skills_ were lousy after all. The last thing he needs is an extra pale Jayden hunting him at night—a ghostly one that he can't even punch. To make matter worse, Shelby used his gun to shoot him down; something that he, considering their public animosity, would fail to justify without the agent backing up his story. He doesn't even want to imagine the swarm of pissed-off FBI assholes that would ravage the station if one of their buddy profiler dies. One annoying agent is already getting his hands full . . . literally.

Blake is back in the moment when Norman's unfocused eyes roll back and lose contact with its surrounding. Jayden can actually die if he doesn't receive proper medical attention now. He is unconscious but breathing at least. _Keep breathing, Norman. I'm so not letting you cough blood in my mouth,_ he mentally protests when he realizes that he may actually need to perform rescue breathing at some point. "Shit!" he curses feeling that he is at end of his rope.

To his great relief, two cops burst through the door, cautious at first but come rushing towards him when they see no immediate danger. He instantly demands, "Call the paramedics in! Man is down!" One cop retraces his footsteps out of the warehouse while other runs to his side. "Get the kid out. He's seen enough," he orders the officer who takes action right away and caries the boy out.

He lets out a deep exhale when paramedics surround him and pushes himself backward to clear the way for the professionals. Truth to be told, he is gratefully for the help since he had his fair share of stress and pressure, enough for one night. However, he realizes that there is no rest for the wicked when he hears a moan of pain to his right: Shelby is coming around. Leisurely, he walks towards the source, intent to give the man a warm welcome back. In the background, paramedics are hustling behind and, soon, rush the injured man outside. Now it is up to doctors and their fancy degrees to save Jayden's life.

A paramedic detours, bypassing him, and kneels besides the other wounded man before he starts assessing his injuries. Standing behind, he watches the medic applies a first aid bandage to the cut on Shelby's neck. Irritated, he hears the healthcare professional explains, "Nothing serious but we need to get him to a hospital, just to make sure." Soon, he interrupts him, snatching his arm and pushing him away, "He's fine." The young paramedic protest but Blake glares at him warningly, "Take a walk, a long one." As expected, the frightened man withdraws without a second thought.

For a while, he stands rigidly, watching the disoriented man regaining his consciousness slowly. With face devoid of any emotions, he locks his blanks eyes with the green pair below that he used to lose himself in its clarity. Before, he used to fall under the soothing spell of the other's gaze whenever he woke up for it. Now, however, he finds it repulsive: the spell has been undone with a single act of betrayal. It's OK though.

Relatively at peace, he proceeds to arrest the killer announcing nonchalantly, "Scott Shelby, you're under arrest." Retrieving his handcuffs, he descends and flips the suspect on his stomach before he restrains him. To his left, the silver gun flashes intriguingly, calling him to pick it up but he decides against it. _Better leave it to the forensics,_ he reasons.

He hauls the arrestee upward while reading him his right, "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have . . ." but gets interrupted, "Save it. I know my rights, Carter." Indifferently, he continues, ignoring the interruption, "You have the right to speak to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?"

When no confirmation comes, Blake's calm façade cracks. He kicks the inside of the ex-cop's right knee, bringing him down on the other, while his arm wraps the wounded neck in a firm chokehold. He ignores the muffled growls that his savage hold induces and hisses in the other's ear, "Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?" The child killer resists for a while but gives up the confirmation when the pressure increases on the sore wound, "Y-yes!"

Satisfied with the display of obedience from the kneeling man, he releases his neck and kicks him on the back, sending him crashing face first on the solid ground. Barely controlling his anger, he walks straight to the door shouting at one of the officers outside, "Hey, you! Take him down the station. He is the Origami Killer." He continues marching forward ignoring the two police officers that run besides him and towards the handcuffed man. No matter how hard he tries, self-control is not his best suit. When he will accept his limitation and make peace with it? Frustrated, he pushes the ajar door, marking it with his bloody hands, before he leaves the crime scene. He cannot say he will miss it though.

* * *

TBC


End file.
